Eternal Journey

2

Annja got up early, packed her suitcase and jogged down six flights in the hotel tower to knock on Oliver’s door. The cameraman had a room on the smoking floor, and the nicotine that permeated the walls set her nose to wrinkling and settled uncomfortably in her mouth.

“C’mon, Ollie. Answer the door. It stinks out here. Get up. C’mon,” she shouted.

She’d slept poorly, snatching only minutes here and there, her dreams filled with fire and with the notion of the mother goddess’s other self nearly wiping out humankind. How would one of Hathor’s oracles interpret such nightmares?

“I need coffee, Oliver. C’mon. Let’s get some food.” She intended to coax the notoriously late-sleeping cameraman to join her for breakfast, but he wouldn’t stir. The rest of the crew gone on the red-eye. She knocked once more and then resigned herself to breakfasting alone.

“Good thing Oliver’s sleeping in,” she whispered several minutes later as she perused the menu in the restaurant off the lobby. The cup of coffee in front of her had so far done nothing to rejuvenate her. “I don’t have to hold back ordering.” She was famished and decided it was better that her cameraman didn’t see her gorge herself.

“I’ll have the creamy Bircher muesli with kiwis, and the strawberry-and-blueberry soy shake for starters,” she told the waiter. “Give me a little time with that, then I’ll have the free-range eggs, three of them poached on whole wheat, with tarragon hollandaise sauce, a slice of this baker’s special—” she pointed to a line on the menu “—banana-and-macadamia nut cake—better make that two slices—and a side of chipolata sausage and onions. Oh, and bring more coffee.”

There were a lot of words in her order, but not terribly much food, she thought, looking at the beautiful presentation that was shortly set before her.

On second thought, it was a lot of food, she decided when she was halfway through. Good thing that she was eating alone. Aside from Oliver not seeing this mountain she was inhaling, the solitude let her think about one of the esoteric archaeology sites she’d visited via her laptop last night.

Wes Michaels had told her not a single mummy had been found so far at any of the Australian digs, which was one of the factors that led some of his contemporaries to argue they were not Egyptian finds. But in ancient times only the pharaoh and his family were so preserved; it was believed important for their journey to the afterlife, where they would join with the gods. The regular folk had no chance of ascending that high. In later centuries, however, the wealthy were also mummified, and some time after that it became common practice for Egyptians from all levels of society—including their cats.

So, Annja thought, based on the age of the site north of Sydney, there’d either been no relatives to a pharaoh there worth mummifying, or something had wiped all of them out in one fell swoop before a single body could be preserved.

“Hathor’s wrath? The monster the segment needs? Or maybe there was no natron,” she mused aloud. Jennifer had mentioned the lack of natron yesterday, and Annja, knowing nothing about it, did a little surfing and learned that natron was a naturally occurring mix of soda ash and sodium bicarbonate, salt and sodium sulfate. The Egyptians used it in their mummification process. No natron, no mummies.

And if a body was not preserved, the Egyptians believed the soul that had inhabited it could well be consigned to a wretched afterlife.

“Like being damned, I guess,” Annja said as she played with the salt shaker. “Not a pretty thought if you’re an ancient Egyptian. No natron, no heaven.”

She shoveled down the rest of her breakfast, put her hands on her stomach and leaned back in the chair, tipped her head up and studied the ceiling. She wouldn’t need to eat anything on the plane. “Maybe I won’t eat until next Tuesday,” she said. “Ooph. Talk about my eyes being bigger than…” She let her words trail off when she saw a table of tourists watching her.

Annja sat straight and glanced at her watch. She’d spent more than an hour in the restaurant, and that left only two hours before she and Oliver had to catch the shuttle to the airport. Time for a quick swim to work off some of the calories, she thought—not that she’d ever needed to worry about her weight or had ever bothered to count calories.

“Excellent tucker,” she told the waiter on her way out, using the Australian slang for food.

She stopped in her room to dig her bathing suit out of the suitcase and put it on. Had she more time, she would have visited one of the city’s beaches, even though it might be a little on the cool side. She’d seen one of the largest out the window of her plane coming in, and it looked so beautiful and inviting. All the more reason for a return trip, she thought. She really did intend to come back, and not just for the Michaels dig.

Everyone she’d met in Australia had been so friendly, and only a scattered few of them had recognized her as a celebrity from Chasing History’s Monsters. She hadn’t had time to visit Circular Quay or ride the ferries, or to get down to the Canberra military museum she’d heard so much about.

Annja rarely had time to do any tourist activities during her globe-hopping. She’d stay a few extra days now if she could, but her schedule was too tight. From here she was going home to New York, where she would put the polish on the fringe piece, as it had been labeled. Two days after that she’d be on a flight to Peru for her next assignment.

Fossils of five-foot-tall penguins with long spearlike beaks had been found in the mountains, dating back forty million years. Her producer postulated that there was a link between the giant penguins and odd-sized skeletons with overlarge craniums that came from much later periods. “Mutant Creatures of the Peaks,” Doug intended to call the segment. She suppressed a giggle.

She threw a towel over her shoulder, snugged into the only pair of jeans she’d brought and stuck her wallet in the back pocket; out of habit she never left her money in her hotel room. She slipped into her flip-flops, which she made a mental note to toss when she was done rather than repack them, and headed out, pausing in front of the mirror. It amazed her that she could look this good given the way she often stuffed herself silly. But then lately the problem had been keeping her weight up; she was so active, between jetting here and there for Chasing History’s Monsters and fighting the assorted clusters of toughs she’d encountered since inheriting Joan of Arc’s sword. She tucked her hair behind her ears. Dark brown, it glistened in the sunlight streaming through her hotel room window. She remembered how pale it used to make her look, contrasting sharply with her then-scholar’s complexion. Now her skin was ruddy from all the hours outdoors, and her white bikini top made her look even more tanned.

“I look pretty good.” Annja, for once, wasn’t embarrassed to admit it.

Maybe Oliver was up finally and would join her for a dip. If he wasn’t awake, she’d roust him and drag him along. No use her being the only one with something sodden in the suitcase.

She took the stairs again, this time at a slow pace, as she didn’t want to stub her toes or catch her flip-flops on the metal strips edging each step. She knocked louder at his door this time.

“Come on, Ollie.” A pause. “Ollie!”

She let out a sigh, the air whistling between her teeth.

Oliver wasn’t the best of company, but still…breakfast alone, a swim alone. A swim would benefit him more than her. She pounded on the door, then after a moment tried the knob.

The mechanism that registered the keycard had been sprung, and the door opened.

“Ollie?”

Annja stared at the spotless, empty room.

The bed was made, as if he hadn’t slept in it. No suitcase, no mussed towels in the bathroom.

Her breath hissed out. So he’d taken the red-eye back with the others. A seat must have opened up. He could have told her, though, she thought angrily.

“You should have told me,” she said, shaking her head. But she knew Ollie wasn’t the most considerate sort. An excellent cameraman, he was less than excellent in the social department.

“Breakfast alone, swim alone. Fine.” Annja stepped back into the hall and was about to close the door when something caught her notice. She pushed the door wide and tiptoed in, nearly tripping when her flip-flops caught in the thick carpet.

There, at the foot of the bed, near the hem of the quilt, was a spot of blood.

3

It’s probably nothing, Annja told herself. But the hairs on her arm prickled and indicated otherwise. She crept around Oliver’s room and this time eyed everything in a more careful light.

Yes, the bed was made. But there was a crease in the middle that a good hotel maid would have smoothed flat. The chair by the lamp had been moved from its usual spot because the depressions in the carpet showed where it usually rested. The lamp shade was slightly askew, too.

Annja sniffed the air, finding only the smell of cigarettes and a touch of flowery spray that the cleaning staff no doubt used to help mask the smell of cigarettes.

She looked in the bathroom. Not a single rumpled towel, and the glasses were turned upside down on doilies, as if Ollie hadn’t used them. No toothbrush by the sink, no razor, no toiletry bag. No smudges on the faucet or mirror. No heavy towel on the floor to act as a bath mat, and no spots of water anywhere that would indicate someone had used the room recently. She pushed aside the shower curtain and saw that the tub was dry. The sink basin was dry, too, evidence to her that Ollie hadn’t been in here for at least a few hours.

Annja sucked in a breath and went to the closet. It was empty, too, save for a fluffy white robe, an ironing board propped up against the back wall and an iron and extra feather pillow on the top shelf. Next she checked the drawers, not sure why she was doing this, and all the while trying to tell herself that indeed Oliver had caught the red-eye.

Telling herself that the blood spot was nothing.

“Oliver’s just fine,” she said. Then she noticed that one of the knobs was missing from the television.

“I’m operating on too wild an imagination and too little sleep. That’s all.” But her words weren’t working to quell her rising fears. She reached for the phone and called the front desk. “Hello. Has Oliver Vylan checked out? Room 312? No? Thanks.”

She slapped the heel of her hand against her forehead. “Just call Oliver,” she said. Annja knew his cell phone number by heart and quickly punched the buttons. One ring. Two. “C’mon, Oliver. Answer.”

If he was on the plane, maybe he couldn’t, she thought. At certain times some airlines wouldn’t let you use your cell phone. They’d flown American. She’d remembered using her cell phone all the time on American flights.

Eight rings. His voice mail message came on.

“Oliver, this is Annja. Call me.” She let her voice sound urgent, so he’d return the call right away. She’d have to go up to her room and grab her cell phone in case he did call.

She depressed the switch hook and started dialing Doug Morrell. Halfway through, she stopped. The time difference, she thought. “To hell with the hours.” She finished the number and let the phone ring, then left another message when an answering machine kicked in. “Doug, this is Annja. Has Oliver checked in with you? Call me, please.”